This will be my first Mother’s Day in 21 years without any children at home. When my youngest left for college in August, my friends and family predicted that I would suffer from what is commonly known as the “Empty Nest Syndrome” – the sadness and loss of purpose that sometimes hits parents when their children leave home. They suggested books that might help me cope; they offered their shoulders to cry on.
But rather than feeling depressed or lost, I found a new sense of freedom when my chicks left the coop. Does it make me sound like a bad mother when I admit that I am reveling in my new-found independence? I like not having to share my car. It is satisfying to cook something for dinner and not hear any complaints. Suddenly, my husband and I can go out whenever we like. We can go to sleep without listening to a movie blaring from the family room upstairs or without wondering if everyone will make it home before their curfews.
Despite all of that, I do miss the kids sometimes. I miss the crazy pace and the constant activity that comes with teenagers. I miss hearing the details of their days, their friendships, their challenges.
With the kids gone, I worry less. Not because there is less to worry about, but because I am less involved. Now, when worry comes, it comes like a missile – out of the blue – and hits without giving me time to brace myself. I can be running errands or on the tennis court. It may be a beautiful sunny day, or a peaceful evening. It is during these placid moments, when everything seems to be going right, that I will get a phone call.
“Mom,” a frail voice says, “I am really sick.” These phone calls generally come from my oldest child, who, at 21, still needs mothering sometimes. He will go on to explain that he has been violently ill and feverish for many hours and, in fact, has been so sick that he was unable to call sooner, unable crawl to a neighbor’s apartment for help. For me, this is the worst part of being any empty-nester. It is excruciating to know that your child needs you and that you are too far away to help.
One morning, I turned on my cell phone and saw that I had a new voicemail message from my son. He had left the message in the middle of the night, not wanting to wake us up by calling on the house phone. “Um,” his message begins in a very shaky way, “I just swerved to miss hitting a deer in the road and my car is in the ditch and I think I’m okay, and the deer is okay, but I am not sure about my car.” He sounds anything but okay. He goes on to explain that he is going to try to get his car out of the ditch and may call again.
That was the first of three messages. In the second call, his voice sounds a little stronger and he tells me that his car is out of the ditch and appears to be undamaged and that he is going to try to drive the rest of the way home. In his third message, he sounds relieved and exhausted as he tells me that he has finally, safely, arrived at his apartment. I can hardly dial the phone fast enough. Even after hearing that last message, I must speak to him immediately. I must know that he is really safe. More than anything, I want to hug him…but I can’t.
Now I understand why my father, at 78, still worries. He gives advice about which cars I should buy; expresses concern if I am in the house alone at night. You never grow out of being a parent. There are no children living in my house right now – but that doesn’t mean that I have stopped being a mother.

Contributed By Laura Weaver

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